


searching for the end of eternity

by skadren



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Post-Canon, Puppet Cloud Strife, Reincarnation, Sefikura Week 2020, Self-Harm, Slight Misunderstandings, Suicide Attempt, and sap, but it's very mild, cloud and seph are both touch-starved, cloud is Big Dumbass, of a sort?, so much sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22399909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadren/pseuds/skadren
Summary: prompt fills for sefikura week 2020other than prompts 1 and 2, all of them can be considered to take place in a canon compliant timeline leading up to a good end where sephiroth is revived and he and cloud are ultimately happy together. (in chronological order: 6. divinity, 4. bittersweet, 3. rain, 5. gloves, 7. anniversary)
Relationships: Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Comments: 23
Kudos: 272





	1. remake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud simply nods, jaw clenched tight in determination as he strides forward, scanning the wreckage before him. He will remake fate brick by brick, pebble by pebble with his bare hands if he has to. (angst, pseudo-reincarnation, distant future au)

“It didn’t work.” _Again,_ passes unsaid.

At Vincent’s words, Cloud opens his eyes—and when had he shut them in the first place?—to take in the decimated landscape before him. Toppled trees, shattered rock, deep scars marring the earth—

Cloud shuts his eyes again, and oh, now he remembers. Each and every battle with Sephiroth leaves its mark not only on the Planet’s surface but also on Cloud’s body, be it new scars or simply added weight to his shoulders. He’d wanted to shut out the destruction they’ve caused, the guilt threatening to drag his knees to the ground, and most of all, what he knows their battle has left behind.

It hurts, having to start over like this each and every time. Starting over again and again and again only for events to cascade like dominos, landing neatly, inevitably, in a pile of heartbreaking anger, hateful regret, world-shaking battles. No matter what Cloud does, what he tries, Sephiroth always remembers, always turns to bitter hatred and wanton destruction and condemnation of humanity. It’s a cosmic joke, Cloud thinks, an impeccable, unwavering orchestration of fate. He might laugh if not for the fact that he knows he would also cry.

It hurts all the more with each passing lifetime, with more memories of Sephiroth smiling as a carefree child, embarrassed as a sullen teenager, _proud happy excited trusting_

_loving_

in ways Cloud knows he never was allowed to be, the first time around. Sephiroth has been many things to Cloud—beloved idol, mortal enemy, worst nightmare. Soulmate, in every way both good and bad, terrible and heartbreakingly beautiful. And lover, always lover, despite Cloud’s fervent protests and moral qualms. After all, even before he remembers, Sephiroth never fails to reach out and simply _take_ that which he sees as his own, and throughout time, the one thing Cloud has always, always been is _Sephiroth’s._

So Sephiroth takes. He takes and takes and takes until he realizes Cloud has nothing left to give, hasn’t had anything for millennia, then turns to other things, seeking more, always more. Perhaps the reason why Sephiroth can never be satisfied with Cloud alone is because Cloud himself is empty. But ultimately, thoughts like these mean nothing; Cloud will try, or Gaia will fall. _Sephiroth_ will fall, for who still holds hope in Sephiroth other than Cloud himself?

“Neither did fighting. He comes back either way,” Cloud finally answers Vincent, reiterating an argument so old it falls heavy and lifeless from his lips. “This time will be different.”

These words, too, are tired and worn. Rote. They hold no more belief behind them than those of a damned man lost to despair.

“You are trying again?”

Cloud simply nods, jaw clenched tight in determination as he strides forward, scanning the wreckage before him. He will remake fate brick by brick, pebble by pebble with his bare hands if he has to.

Vincent is silent as he follows. He knows better than to suggest any other alternative; the one time Vincent had raised Sephiroth instead of Cloud in hopes of preventing his memories from returning, Sephiroth had rent a continent in half looking for what belonged to him. There is a deep river, now, that cuts through the Nibel mountain range.

Finally, a glint of silver catches Cloud’s eye, and he sighs in relief despite himself. Partially obscured behind a shattered piece of cliff face lies a pale child, naked and vulnerable but unharmed, unmarred by dirt despite how he rests in a scorched slurry created by the strongest possible magic colliding over earth.

Cloud sighs again as he crouches, tugging off one of his gloves to cup the boy’s cheek with a bare hand. Green eyes flutter open at his touch, their glow dim and wavering but present, and stare blankly up at him, innocent. Unknowing. And as the boy leans into Cloud’s hand, inexplicably trusting, this scene, one Cloud has relived over and over and over again, reminds him again why he does this, why he tries so hard.

“Where…?” the boy croaks, confused with a tinge of growing panic, and Cloud strokes his hair in a long-ingrained gesture of comfort.

“Hello, Sephiroth,” Cloud murmurs for the thousandth time, and he knows he will say it thousands more. “My name is Cloud. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

Maybe one day, he will be able to keep his promise.


	2. bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cloud?” Sephiroth’s voice sounds distant and faded, and it must be the wind again, Cloud muses as he stands on the edge of forever, body swaying forward, then back again, then forward, then back, then forward, further forward, until he _tilts_ headfirst into eternity. (puppet cloud, suicide attempt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place in [red strings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451917/chapters/46298665) 'verse, but can be read as a standalone
> 
> insp. by ["hope" is the thing with feathers](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314) by emily dickenson

The soft wings on Cloud’s back twitch and flutter, unconsciously mimicking the movements of the pair of small birds outside his window as they swoop and gambol through the crystal-clear sky. One of them flits out of the window frame and Cloud leans forward, craning his neck to get a better view. Something that might be called longing aches in his chest.

“Cloud.”

Cloud yelps and topples forward, smacking his forehead against the pane of glass. “Sephiroth—!” he gasps in _(fearpanicterror)_ surprise.

Sephiroth chuckles, rich and deep. “Did I startle you?” Long fingers stroke at the nape of Cloud’s neck, then trail languidly down to the sensitive spot between his shoulder blades where skin bleeds into feathers.

Cloud shivers, _(repulsedafraidguilty)_ pleased. “A little,” he admits even as he bares his neck for his _(enemyjailormaster)_ lover.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Sephiroth murmurs against Cloud’s fluttering pulse. “You know that.”

“I know that,” Cloud repeats obediently. “But…” He sneaks a glance out the window again. The birds are still there, the smaller of the two perched on the sill while the other hovers above it, as if beckoning.

Sephiroth smooths Cloud’s hair back, drawing his attention again. “But…? Does it have something to do with what you were so avidly staring at earlier?”

“The birds.”

Sephiroth pauses. “Birds?”

“Yeah.” Cloud smiles, faint but genuine. “It’s been a while since…” _(since he’s last seen any signs of life)_

Sephiroth looks out the window as well, an imperceptible crease in his brow. "Birds?" he repeats.

Cloud nods, then—"Oh," he says, inexplicably wistful as they alight effortlessly, swooping away until they are no more than tiny specks on the horizon. "There they go."

Sephiroth is silent for a moment before shifting just so, and then Cloud finds himself pinned down on his back, staring up at a curtain of quicksilver hair and emerald-bright eyes, identical to his own. “You should be concerned with more _relevant_ things, shouldn’t you?” Sephiroth purrs in a very particular tone of voice.

Cloud blinks up at him once, twice. He knows exactly what that tone means, and despite the overwhelming _(trepidation)_ compulsion that grips him, he finds himself hesitating to obey Sephiroth for the _(thousandth)_ first time. There’s a strange weight in his chest, heavy yet buoyant at the same time; his eyes flick over to the window just barely in his periphery once more, and Sephiroth growls.

_“Cloud.”_

Cloud’s gaze snaps back with a sharp, breathy gasp, head falling limp against soft pillows as he automatically spreads himself obligingly beneath Sephiroth. Everything goes soft and warm and comfortable, blurred about the edges, and he stares adoringly up at his lover, his god, his _everything._

(Part of Cloud _screams,_ unheard.)

Sephiroth stares back, something unreadable in his gaze. Then he sighs, sitting back up. “How would you like to fly with me, Cloud?”

It takes a moment for Sephiroth’s words to register in Cloud’s fogged brain, and even when they do, Cloud has to repeat, “Fly? With you?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth says. There’s an unnameable emotion in the line of his brow, the flicker of his eyes, the set of his mouth. “Would you like to try?”

Cloud hesitates. Something about _outside_ and _Sephiroth_ don’t fit together in his mind, two mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. But it’s something Sephiroth has suggested, so of course, he acquiesces with a nod.

Though Sephiroth takes the lead, Cloud’s legs seem to remember the winding passageways and long halls, as if he’s traveled the route leading outside many times before. But although he may have spent the long hours without Sephiroth roaming the castle, he’s only been outside…

How many times? He doesn’t remember.

(More times than he can count. Each ends in failure.)

When they finally step outside, Cloud stumbles as the strong wind batters at him, tugging impatiently at his feathers. Sephiroth steadies him with a strong arm.

“Be careful,” Sephiroth murmurs, and his words are torn away by the wind as well. He keeps his arm wound tightly around Cloud’s waist as they make their way down a snaking path of shattered stone floating in a carpet of clouds. Occasionally, Cloud catches glimpses of the ground far, far below, scorched and gray and lifeless. Something in him shudders and recoils at the view, and he grips Sephiroth’s arm, hard.

“What’s wrong?” Sephiroth asks, soft and concerned.

“I’m… That’s…” Cloud swallows, hard. “That’s”— _(a terrible sight)—_ “a long way down.”

“ … It is, yes.”

“A fall from this height could kill someone,” falls from Cloud’s mouth, numb and unbidden.

Sephiroth’s arm tightens around Cloud’s waist. “Don’t worry,” he reassures. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” Cloud says, _(sorrowfulresentfuldespairing)_ grateful. He takes one step forward, slipping out of Sephiroth's grasp, then another, and another, feet drawn by some magnetic pull until he stares down at his toes hanging over empty air.

It's a familiar sight, Cloud thinks, then promptly forgets _(again)._

“Cloud?” Sephiroth’s voice sounds distant and faded, and it must be the wind again, Cloud muses as he stands on the edge of forever, body swaying forward, then back again, then forward, then back, then forward, further forward, until he

_tilts_

headfirst into eternity.

 _“Cloud!”_ A cry rings out, carried up

and up

and up

by the wind until it dwindles to nothing.

_“Your wings—spread your wings—!”_

-

Sephiroth catches him.

The next day, Cloud returns to his position watching the window; Sephiroth watches Cloud.

The day after that, the window is obscured by a heavy curtain. Cloud never brings the birds up again, the memory lost, forgotten, buried. Hidden, carefully sequestered away, a precious treasure.

Sometimes, though, when Cloud is asleep, Sephiroth will pull back the curtain and scour the empty sky with a deep frown. There hasn’t been a single living thing left on Gaia since Sephiroth’s rampage.

There had never been any birds.


	3. rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stand there together for a few minutes, a small eternity, watching shimmering droplets of water trickle and bead down the sunshine-yellow petals of the flowers marking the spot where Zack fell. (post-ac, hurt/comfort)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insp. by [morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x4zzzC24DM) by mamamoo

The rain comes back to Edge slowly but steadily, yet another gift from Aerith. It cleanses the polluted air, smooths over the dry cracks in the earth, and the rebuilding city transforms from arid desert to something tentatively green, tiny budding leaves springing from the ground.

The kids love it, splashing in the puddles after each rainstorm passes, exclaiming over each faint rainbow in the sky, tugging Cloud out to see each new plant, tiny and tender and full of life. And Cloud will smile and nod, revelling in their joy, then turn his gaze up to the sky and send Aerith his thanks.

Because not only does Aerith’s rain rejuvenate, but it also purifies. Cloud can spend hours standing out in the downpour, feeling the wetness soak through his hair, his clothes, his skin, settling safely somewhere deep in his blood and his breath and his bones before Tifa calls him back inside, scolding and concerned. He always feels more solid afterwards, more settled in his own skin, and the days where he looks in the mirror and sees a stranger (too tall, too worn, too  _ old _ to be the naive boy of sixteen who’d dreaded going back to his hometown) instead of his reflection are few and far between, now.

It’s just too bad the rain can’t wash away the dreams. But Cloud has no high hopes for that; Sephiroth is ingrained so deeply into the core of his very being that not even the Lifestream itself can touch it. So he bears with the dreams, both the ones where he suffers Sephiroth’s touch and the ones where he suffers the lack of it, all the nightmares and the delusions and the fantasies of a more carnal nature, and tells no one.

For the same reasons, he says nothing of how sometimes the raindrops will catch on the light just so and reveal a flicker of quicksilver-bright hair, mako-lit eyes, shimmering black feathers. Sometimes the wet asphalt will reflect the rippling edge of a coat, the metallic flash of a materia bracelet, the thick-soled edge of leather boots, and Cloud isn’t sure if it’s his paranoia or his guilt or his dreams that stalk him. But then Cloud catches a glimpse of a silhouette in the shape of the pattering rain, and as it turns to meet his gaze, something about its slumped posture and washed-out eyes seems so tired, so defeated that Cloud finds himself keeping quiet for an entirely different reason.

So he almost isn’t surprised when one day, caught on the outskirts of Edge by an encroaching storm, he pauses to pay respects to Zack’s memorial, and an all-too-familiar figure joins him. It’s the change in rainfall that alerts him, the way it drums out a new rhythm against a coat more tangible than its faded appearance suggests, followed by the uneven tread of boots on wet earth, slow and hesitant in a way Cloud has never known their owner to be.

They stand there together for a few minutes, a small eternity, watching shimmering droplets of water trickle and bead down the sunshine-yellow petals of the flowers marking the spot where Zack fell.

Sephiroth breaks the silence first. “ … I’m sorry.”

Cloud sucks in a sharp breath. He can taste the earthy-clean scent of rain lingering on the back of his tongue as he turns to look up at Sephiroth, taking in the man’s drenched clothing, the wet hair plastered to his face and chest, his bent posture, just as defeated as Cloud had last seen it. Finally, he answers, “I’m not sure if I can forgive you.”

Sephiroth doesn’t look surprised as he inclines his head. “I expected as much. I was not asking for forgiveness.”

Cloud sighs, then turns back away. “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry too. That things turned out the way they did.”

“What do you mean?” Sephiroth sounds almost startled. “You of all people did nothing wrong, Cloud.”

“Maybe so,” Cloud says, contemplating the blue-gray sky, and droplets fall onto his face, his cheeks, his eyelids, crying the tears he cannot shed. “But something went wrong back then. Lots of things, probably. And… I wish they hadn’t.”

“The things you speak of cannot be changed,” Sephiroth says, words sharp and fierce and heavy.

Cloud smiles without mirth. “I know. Why do you think I’m sorry?”

“ … Cloud.”

Cloud flinches as long fingers wrap around his sleeve, tugging him back around to face Sephiroth. The man’s eyes bore into his, glowing bright and eerie against his pale, washed-out features, trying to convey something urgent, something desperate.

“I wish,” Sephiroth says, throat bobbing as he swallows hard, “I wish things had been different too.”

In the next moment, they fall into a heated, open-mouthed kiss, as inevitable as the collision of two fated stars, and it feels like both coming home and the end of the world at once. It's everything and nothing like Cloud’s dreams, the cold and wet intensifying each brush of skin on skin, every hot puff of breath, and their murmurs and gasps are masked by the rhythmic pattering of raindrops, the low rumble of thunder, the groaning of trees in the wind.

Cloud falls asleep tucked carefully in Sephiroth’s arms. When he wakes, both Sephiroth and the rain are gone, and he is left with nothing more than petrichor sharp in his nose. He shoves what transpired to the back of his mind as he clambers to his feet, brushes the dried mud off his body, and drives back to Edge. Back home.

The rain, as always, comes back. Sephiroth never does.

Neither do Cloud’s dreams, and suddenly, inexplicably, Cloud finds himself missing them (missing  _ Sephiroth)  _ terribly.


	4. bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss catches him off guard, hard and desperate and possessive, and when he gasps into it he can taste something bittersweet lingering underneath the sharp metallic tang of blood. (post-og, recovery of a sort)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as fond of this one as the previous few, but it exists at least

Cloud had expected it to be over with the final strike from Omnislash. Yet Sephiroth stands there, bleeding heavily—and isn't that odd, that the mental representation of a man who thought himself god would bleed—with a strange look in his eyes, and Cloud almost takes a wary step backwards.

But he stands firm. This is his mind, his fight, his victory, and there is nothing Sephiroth can do to change that now.

(This is his fatal mistake.)

The kiss catches him off guard, hard and desperate and possessive, and when he gasps into it he can taste something bittersweet lingering underneath the sharp metallic tang of blood.

 _Don’t forget me, Cloud,_ Sephiroth says even as he fades, and try as he might, Cloud is helpless to do anything but obey.

-

AVALANCHE celebrates by storming the closest bar to the Northern Crater, a tiny hole in the wall in Icicle Inn.

In the wake of Meteor, no one bats an eye when even Yuffie breaks into the alcohol. They’ve all done their part; they all deserve their reward. And yet Cloud finds himself tucked in a dim corner as he nurses a bottle of something he cannot name. Whatever it is, it’s strong and sharp and bitter, and it burns oddly as it goes down.

Almost like Sephiroth, he catches himself thinking, but not quite. Sephiroth had tasted sweeter. Bittersweet.

He looks up when Vincent settles next to him. "Not gonna go celebrate with the others?" He gestures vaguely at the rest of their group. Yuffie shrieks something unintelligible as glass shatters, and Cid barks something in return. Cloud winces. "We're gonna have to pay for that."

"I could ask the same of you," Vincent answers, unruffled by the commotion.

The corners of Cloud's mouth tip downwards. "They're having fun. I don't want to ruin the mood."

"A bittersweet victory for you as well, was it?" Vincent murmurs.

There it is again. _Bittersweet. " … _I guess."

Vincent is silent for a moment. Then he says, "Sephiroth was, as you know, Lucrecia's son. I will not say his fate was undeserved as a result of his actions. But perhaps in a different life…"

"Oh," Cloud says, and suddenly he feels like he understands Vincent that much more. "I… The others never knew Sephiroth before—well, _before._ Not like I did either, but… there were things you could see, as long as you were looking. He—yeah, everyone knew about his ruthlessness on the battlefield. And the fact that he'd commit genocide just on ShinRa's orders—well. He was never a _good_ person, I guess. But things happen in war, and… None of the higher-ups cared. We were just cannon fodder to them. Maybe it was just his military genius, his pride, whatever—but everyone knew he always reduced casualties as much as he could. Leaving the other infantryman behind in Nibelheim—I should have realized right away that something wasn't right.

"And he always looked so _sad,"_ Cloud continues, and perhaps it's a result of the alcohol, but somehow he finds he can't stop. "Sad and lonely and lost. Like no one could touch him. He asked me about my hometown, and my mother, and when he mentioned his own parents—" He cuts himself off when a pained expression flashes across Vincent's face for the briefest of moments. "Sorry."

"No," Vincent says, watching Cloud intently. "Continue. I'd like to hear what Sephiroth was like, before everything. Before JENOVA."

So Cloud tells him everything he remembers and more, glad that the bits and pieces of what he'd picked up from Zack's memories have finally come in handy. By the time he drains the last of his drink, his voice is low and hoarse, and he murmurs wistfully, "Things could have been different. If only…"

Vincent nods, eyes closing in contemplation. "If only."

The last drop of alcohol tastes almost bittersweet.

-

Two years later, Cloud dreams.

 _You remember,_ Sephiroth purrs against Cloud's lips. _Good boy. My obedient little puppet._

Cloud snarls and tries to pull away, but try as he might, his body remains limp and pliant in Sephiroth's grasp.

"You're dead," he manages to gasp before Sephiroth plunders his mouth with another burning kiss, swallowing the rest of his words.

_I will never be dead so long as you hold a place for me in your heart, Cloud._

Cloud manages a weak kick. "You don't have a place anywhere, you bastard!"

Sephiroth chuckles. _Your protests are adorable, but quite futile._

"Fuck you!"

_Perhaps later. Wake up, Cloud. Family business calls._

And Cloud jolts awake, clutching at his Geostigma-infected arm, the taste of bittersweet _longing-desperation-triumph_ lingering on his tongue.

Later, when three silver-haired men attack, he wishes he could be more surprised.


	5. gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He flashes Sephiroth a brief smile. “Reeve says humans are social creatures. Physical contact… It’s nice. Makes you feel less alone. I don’t think I’d ever want to go back.” (post-canon, mild self-harm)

Sephiroth never takes off his gloves, Cloud realizes.

Of course, he’s never been an expressive man, but somehow there’s something stiff about the way Sephiroth keeps his hands contained at his sides whenever he can. And though he seems to find every excuse to reach out to Cloud, it’s always the barest brush of a gloved hand against his clothed shoulder, the gentlest tug on the edge of his sleeve, and once, just once, a strange, aborted movement towards his face.

As the days pass, Sephiroth gradually begins to settle in, dressing more casually, helping with chores, even holding a genial conversation once or twice with the others, but the gloves stay on. So Cloud finds himself tracking Sephiroth’s restrained movements, watching and wondering, unsure of how to ask.

Everything clicks when he comes home early from a delivery one day to find the bathroom door unlocked and Sephiroth standing in front of the sink, staring blankly down at his hands scrubbed raw and red as the faucet runs and runs and runs.

“Sephiroth!” Cloud exclaims, but Sephiroth doesn’t seem to notice him until he shuts off the burning water with one hand and lays the other over Sephiroth’s, hissing lightly at the temperature.

Sephiroth recoils immediately, tearing away from Cloud’s grasp. “Don’t touch—!”

Cloud presses his lips together into a firm line, but reaches out again patiently, trying to keep his voice as calm and level as possible. “You need to get that burn looked at. How long was the water running at that temperature?”

“No need,” Sephiroth says quickly. “It will heal on its own.”

“ … What if I want to?” Cloud asks quietly, surprising even himself. After all, he knows better than anyone how quickly his former enemy heals. Sephiroth’s sentiments mirror his own; he looks so stunned he doesn’t jerk away this time when Cloud grasps his wrist, carefully avoiding the damaged areas of skin.

“You shouldn’t,” Sephiroth says blankly, even as Cloud leads him out of the bathroom. “I—my touch should repulse you. Why would you—”

“Sit down.” Cloud points at the bed, almost afraid to let Sephiroth finish his sentence; Cloud knows he won’t be able to answer. Not when even he himself doesn’t know why. “I’ll be back with the first aid kit.”

When Cloud returns with aforementioned kit, he almost balks at the sight of Sephiroth seated obediently on the bedspread, legs tucked and hands curled in a position reminiscent of a scolded child. But he simply drags a chair over, then gets to work rubbing a clear, soothing gel over Sephiroth’s reddened skin.

Halfway through, though, he finds himself saying, “I stopped wearing fingerless gloves around when I got the ‘Stigma.”

Sephiroth’s head snaps up. He still looks lost and confused, but at least he seems to be listening intently, so Cloud continues.

“I’d always suspected, in a way, you know. That JENOVA was responsible. It was like this heaviness in my gut. I’d hoped I was wrong, but at the same time I  _ knew. _ And who was the biggest source of J-cells at the time but me? So I found myself watching everyone I’d ever spoken to. Everyone who’d ever been in the same room as me, that I might’ve so much as  _ breathed _ on. And of course, it wouldn’t make  _ logical _ sense, I found Denzel after he was already sick, but I couldn’t help but feel…” Cloud trails off, shaking his head.

“And then it got worse, and I started thinking about how shit always seemed to happen to people I’d known, people I’d cared about, how I always seemed to make things worse, to break anything I’d ever touched, and I—I felt like some kind of walking biohazard. Or maybe a death omen, I don’t know. So I wore gloves. Didn’t let anyone touch me. And eventually, I left altogether.”

“ … Cloud—”

“Sometimes I catch myself still doing it,” Cloud says, staring down at their intertwined hands. By now his own have stilled, and they tangle limply with Sephiroth’s fingers. “It’s been a hard habit to break. But you know…” He flashes Sephiroth a brief smile. “Reeve says humans are social creatures. Physical contact… It’s nice. Makes you feel less alone. I don’t think I’d ever want to go back.”

For a moment, they sit there in silence. Then Sephiroth says, almost too quiet to be heard, “It was always blood, before.”

Cloud hums encouragingly, rubbing soothing circles into the soft part of Sephiroth’s hand.

“It always looked the same,” Sephiroth says, and he isn’t looking at Cloud, but his voice is stronger. “Red. Thick. And it never came off, no matter… no matter what I tried. How hard I scrubbed. I never knew who it belonged to, and I thought that might have been worse, because all the faces blurred together. I couldn’t bring myself to care about who I’d personally slain, and that was precisely why I cared so much. After all, how did that bode for my humanity?

“And then later, after everything, when I woke up here…” Sephiroth finally meets Cloud’s gaze, green eyes bright and haunted. “Sometimes it’s a green-black sludge. JENOVA, I presume. Understandable—her taint is an inseparable part of me by now. That alone would be enough for me to avoid touching anyone, anything, for fear of leaving that taint behind. But most of the time it’s your blood. And I realize that I had been wrong before; knowing who it belongs to is so, so much worse. 

“I'm aware, of course, that it isn’t real, in the barest sense of the word. But in the moment—in the moment, I…” Sephiroth shakes his head. “I know it is irrational. But as of now… wearing gloves, at least, makes it manageable."

"It's not irrational," Cloud says. "Sometimes your brain says fuck you. I get that. So if it helps you to wear gloves, then it does. But if you ever get episodes like earlier, well…" He glances down at their hands again. "We've been holding hands for the past half-hour. How do you feel?"

Sephiroth looks down too, startled. "We have, haven't we."

Cloud squeezes lightly. "Yeah."

" … It's nice," Sephiroth finally concludes. "Nicer than I expected. And… the blood's gone. At least for now."

"I'm glad. If you ever need…” Cloud tugs on their connected hands again, and to his surprise, after a moment, Sephiroth tugs back.

"Thank you, Cloud," Sephiroth says, quiet and genuine. "For everything."


	6. divinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the beginning, he had been Sephiroth’s. Had there really ever been any other option he could have taken? Any other possibility he could have considered? Any other way it could have ended? (disc 2 compliant, puppet cloud)

Cloud had only ever asked his mother once why the others in the village seemed to resent them so much, why they glared at her whenever she passed through, why they stared and whispered and spat harsh words.

She’d sighed and smoothed his hair back and answered, “Because we’re different. Because you were born in a way different from most children, and because we live in a different way from the rest of them, and especially because we believe in different things, pay respects to different gods. Humans will always fear that which is different.”

And Cloud had said, “But Tifa said that her family doesn’t believe in any gods at all. She called it  _ weird.” _ That day had lingered distinctly in his childlike mind, painted in hurt and rejection and confusion, and it’d spawned the thought that it wasn’t  _ his _ fault that his ma liked to burn sharp-smelling things and pray strange words sometimes and maybe he didn’t particularly want to believe in gods if all the other kids thought it was  _ weird. _

But his mother had shaken her head. “They may not believe in our gods, but they have their idols nonetheless. They worship their steel and their mako, their weapons and their industry, their illusion of progress and power. A god made of metal and glass is still a god.”

“I don’t get it,” Cloud had said with a huff. “That sounds stupid. I don’t think I want to believe in any gods at all.”

“Oh, silly Stormcloud,” his mother had said, pitying and amused at once. “Each man has his idol whether he knows it or not, whether he wants it or not. You’ll see what I mean, some day.”

But Cloud had never understood—that is, not until now.

_ Everyone, thanks for everything. And… I’m sorry. _

Now, he stands in a tangle of branches, the world turned up on its head, and the black materia burns neither hot nor cold through his thick gloves, making his trembling hands tingle and prick with invisible needles. 

He’d never been “Cloud, SOLDIER First Class”. He’d worn that skin briefly, yes, and so well he’d even fooled himself, all for the sake of helping his greatest enemy. Helping Sephiroth. And now he stands before his judgment, helplessly open, bared, vulnerable.

Of course, the rage is still there. The anger, the hatred, the resentment, the desperate cry of  _ you did it, it’s all your fault, you burned everything, you killed everyone—my mother—Aerith— _

_ (zack) _

But even that means nothing. Emotions planted through intentional machinations in the shell of a body that may or may not ever have been the boy from Nibelheim named Cloud. Paint on a blank mask, a puppet playing at being human. Does he really feel it? Or is it just a remnant, emotions his creator had placed in him that, despite accomplishing their job, simply refuse to disappear?

He hates Sephiroth, he does. But he finds, upon waiting breathlessly for him to appear, that tangled underneath that hatred lies  _ shame fear awe wonder rapture  _ that swells with every breath.

He’s helpless without Sephiroth. He is empty, he is meaningless, he is nothing. It feels like fate, inevitable; he’d spent so long fighting Sephiroth so hard every step of the way, and yet in the end, he finds himself returning, shamefaced, the weight of his adoration crushing what little sense of self he might have previously had.

He’s so tired. Why fight anymore? It does nothing. From the beginning, he had been  _ Sephiroth’s.  _ Had there really ever been any other option he could have taken? Any other possibility he could have considered? Any other way it could have ended?

And suddenly, in the light of this realization, everything seems so simple, so clear. What else would Sephiroth be but his idol, his  _ god? _

_ Sephiroth? Sephiroth? I’m here. And I brought you the Black materia. _

_ (where are you? i hate you. i love you.) _


	7. anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth begins dragging Cloud over to the booth by their joined hands before he even finishes speaking, and Cloud smiles. It’s rare to see Sephiroth so openly interested in something. (post-canon, fluff and sap)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late upload, wifi decided to die a sudden and terrible death,
> 
> this is much, much longer than the others though so like. compensation i guess

“I’m sure you know already,” Cloud says, packing the dirt down gently with his hands over a newly-planted row of rare flower seeds—all the way from Round Island this time, and he’s honestly rather proud of them— “but today’s kind of a big deal.”

He pats the dirt from his hands, then settles back on his knees, looking up at the Buster Sword wreathed in flowers. It’s illuminated just so by a single bright ray of light from the hole in the ceiling above, and he likes to think it means that they’re listening in.

“People are setting up stalls in the square again,” he continues. “The kids always love them; people honestly come up with the weirdest shit to sell for a festival that’s supposed to celebrate the almost-apocalypse. If I find anything that stands out, I’ll get some for you guys, but I doubt anything’ll beat those AVALANCHE dolls from last year. It looks like there’ll be a lot more flowers this year, though, so I’ll bring some to plant here if I find any new ones.

“But as for why I’m here so early today… well. It’s going to be Sephiroth’s first year. He said he wanted to go to the festival, so it’s better if I spend the day with him instead of hiding out here like usual.” Cloud pauses; he can practically hear Aerith giggling in the distance. “Not like _ that,”  _ he mutters, suddenly flustered. “I’m just worried that all the reminders might not put him in a good headspace. He won’t say anything on his own, though, so it’s better if there’s someone there if he starts feeling guilty. I’d… I’d like for him to have a good time. I think it would go a long way to helping him get over… everything, if he manages to associate the date with something other than all the bad memories.

“So… don’t get too lonely without me,” Cloud jokes as he finally stands, a tiny smile curling in the corners of his mouth. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Otherwise… wish us luck, I guess.”

(As he turns and leaves, there’s another giggle, more distinct this time.  _ Silly Cloud. You won’t need luck.) _

-

“Cloud, there you are!” Tifa exclaims the moment he steps back into the bar. “Sephiroth’s been treading a hole through the flooring, wondering where you went. I think he’s worried.”

Cloud pauses. “He’s… worried? What for?”

Tifa shrugs. “Anxious, maybe? Agitated at the very least. With that man, who knows? Where were you anyways?”

“I went to visit the church early today so I could—”

“You’re actually going to spend more than an hour at the festival with us today?” Tifa says with a gasp, looking both surprised and excited. “What changed?”

Cloud glances upstairs. What else?

Tifa looks upstairs too, then sighs. “Look, Cloud, about what I said when he first showed up…”

“And I said I understand, Tifa, it’s okay, you already let him live here—”

“But I take it back,” Tifa insists. “I think… I think I do see a little of what you see in him. He cares for you a lot, anyone can see that. Gods know it was hard enough for me to wrap my head around at first, but… He’s trying, he really is. And I can’t… I can’t keep resenting him for that, at least.”

“ … Thanks, Tifa,” Cloud says. “It really means a lot.”

Tifa just pats his arm reassuringly. “Why don’t you go fetch the kids. All of them,” she says with a gleam in her eyes, and Cloud snorts.

“He did seem pretty excited about the festival, didn’t he?” Even though he’s gotten better at reading Sephiroth, sometimes it’s still hard to tell what the man is thinking. But upon hearing that there would be a festival to commemorate Meteorfall, Sephiroth’s eyes had gleamed and he’d almost seemed to  _ perk up, _ if possible, before asking if Cloud had been planning on attending, which Cloud had taken to mean in Sephiroth-speak that he had wanted to go.

And Sephiroth does appear rather relieved upon seeing Cloud as they herd Denzel and Marlene out the door, and if what Tifa had said about him being agitated was true—

“You know they would have let you go even if I wasn’t here, right?” Cloud reassures Sephiroth quietly, out of earshot of the others. “It’s been a year. We trust you.”

Sephiroth gives Cloud a bemused look. “That thought had briefly crossed my mind, yes, but I asked because I wanted to attend with you, not because I wanted a watchdog. I know very well that, despite all logic, you trust me. I’m grateful for that.”

They both very carefully ignore the way Sephiroth avoided addressing the topic of everyone  _ else’s _ trust. But it’s all right, Cloud knows; they’re working on it. 

So instead he just says, “Oh, okay,” and tries to ignore how flustered the idea of Sephiroth wanting to spend time with him specifically makes him. It shouldn’t, really; they spend most of their time together anyways whenever Cloud isn’t on a delivery run, and Sephiroth tags along on half of those by now too. But still, somehow the way Sephiroth had said  _ I wanted to attend with you— _

The festival, unfortunately, doesn’t go too well. The lines about Sephiroth’s eyes tighten with stress the moment they step into the bustling square, the crowd pressing in on all sides, and Cloud’s quick to take his hand, both to reassure and simply out of necessity to not get separated. He tries to point out booths to visit, but Sephiroth doesn’t seem interested in any of them, not the one with flower wreaths, not the one with decorative bracelets styled after materia, not the one selling time-elapse photos of Meteor’s descent, not even the one with replicas of the assorted weapons AVALANCHE had used along their journey.

(On the other hand, Cloud’s rather pleased to note that the nail bat is displayed proudly on one of the shelves. That particular weapon holds a fond place in his heart.)

Finally, Cloud’s about to call it a day and try subtly suggesting to Sephiroth that he doesn’t have to try so hard to seem “over” past events if he isn’t ready—especially if he might not ever be ready—and that Cloud himself certainly hadn’t wanted to take part the first year there had been festivities when Sephiroth’s gaze sharpens as it catches on something.

Cloud follows its direction to see— “Oh,” he says. “That’s the doll booth from last year.”

“Last year?” Sephiroth repeats, not looking away from said booth.

“Yeah, it’s run by one of the regulars at Seventh Heaven. He sells handmade dolls based on AVALANCHE and some of our other friends; they’re a big hit with all the kids. Wanna go check it out?”

Sephiroth begins dragging Cloud over to the booth by their joined hands before he even finishes speaking, and Cloud smiles. It’s rare to see Sephiroth so openly interested in something.

And they are really very cute, Cloud muses as he inspects a Nanaki doll while Sephiroth talks to the booth owner, admiring its soft, squishy plushness. He’d left the Aerith and Zack dolls he’d gotten last year in the church for the kids rather than take any home himself, and he almost regrets not getting one for himself.

He’s really not sure who he’d get, though, if he ever did. It’d feel almost unfair to his friends if he got one over the others, even if they’re just dolls. He’s still pondering this when Sephiroth tugs on Cloud’s hand, dragging his attention back.

“It’s five hundred gil for a doll,” Sephiroth says briskly, as if giving a report. “One hundred for an attempt at a bottle-shooting minigame. Enough points will net you a doll of your choice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, are you with Cloud?” the booth owner says, looking between the two of them. “There’s no need for that, then—I couldn’t possibly charge you for—”

“No.”

Cloud blinks, surprised when his protest over special treatment is stolen straight from his mouth. Sephiroth looks very adamant as he insists, “I’d like to try the minigame… Please,” he adds after a stilted moment, and Cloud gapes.

“Sephiroth?” Cloud says blankly. The only thing he can think to say is, “Do you even know how to shoot?”

Sephiroth doesn’t answer, but his stubborn silence and the way his first shot—which is just a glorified golf ball—veers several inches too far to the left speaks volumes. Out of his five tries, Sephiroth only manages to knock a bottle over once. Not enough to win a prize.

“The gun is inconsistent,” Sephiroth mutters, and Cloud would almost dare to say that he’s sulking. “Each time I adjusted for its trajectory, it would—”

Cloud pats his shoulder. “It’s just a game. Besides, you never really learned how to handle a gun, did you? You never had to. It’s been a while, but the infantry was all about guns; maybe some of it managed to stick. How about I give it a try?”

Sephiroth blinks down at him, then finally relinquishes the plastic gun. “You were a fairly good shot, back then.”

“Was I?” Cloud says absentmindedly as he lays another hundred gil down on the table, hefting the gun to test its weight before lining up for the shot. “I don’t remember…” The barrel jerks and the shot goes wide as he realizes— “Wait, how did you know?”

“Your file,” Sephiroth says. “I had to ensure whoever was sent with Zack on that mission to Modeoheim was competent, of course. And again for… for Nibelheim.” A pause, then a gloved hand rests gently on the small of Cloud’s back. “It may have been ‘a while’, as you said, but I have complete faith that you can do it, Cloud.”

“Not with  _ that _ revelation sitting on my head, thanks,” Cloud gripes back, but something about Sephiroth’s touch is oddly steadying, and he finds the next four shots landing true.

“Congratulations!” says the booth owner, who Cloud suddenly realizes has been watching them with avid interest. “Which one would you like?”

Cloud looks up at Sephiroth, but Sephiroth just looks back at Cloud. “The doll was supposed to be for you.”

“What? But you’re the one who wanted to—”

“Now, now.” The booth owner smiles knowingly. “How about this one? It’s my most popular.”

“Oh, no, gods—” Cloud starts, but it’s too late. He groans in embarrassment as the man holds up the plush version of himself, small and soft and round-cheeked with a stubborn frown stitched onto its face.

“That’s quite the likeness,” Sephiroth says, almost sounding impressed.

“So? What do you say?”

“ … We’ll take it,” Sephiroth says over Cloud’s protests, and Cloud groans again.

But he decides he doesn’t regret it too much as he watches Sephiroth cradle the plush as they make their way back through the crowds. And when Sephiroth asks if Cloud wants to get ice cream, there’s an awkward shuffling of arms and hands as he tries to maintain his grip on Cloud’s hand, receive his order, and hold the plush at the same time, careful not to drip ice cream on the doll the entire time. Cloud ends up laughing and looping his arm through Sephiroth’s elbow to guide them to sit down by a fountain, where they’ll be able to eat in peace without worrying about getting separated.

Sephiroth almost seems relieved when he sees Cloud laugh, saying, “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

His tone almost makes it sound like a question, though, so Cloud tilts his head in askance. “I am as long as you are. I was more worried about you, actually. You seemed a little overwhelmed at first. You know you don’t have to force yourself to act like you’re over things when you might not be ready to, right? It’s okay, really.”

But Sephiroth just frowns, staring down at plush Cloud still cradled carefully in his hand. “So my behavior was bothering you… I apologize. I wanted today to be perfect.”

“Perfect?” Cloud cocks a brow. “What’s the pressure?”

“It was recently brought to my attention couples are apparently supposed to commemorate important dates,” Sephiroth says, “and Yuffie said that this would be a good way to celebrate our anniversary—”

“Yuffie said what about couples? Wait, what anniversary?”

The furrow in Sephiroth’s brow grows deeper. “I suppose… my resurrection? Or perhaps my death would work too. After all, they both fall on the same date. Either way, my research—and Yuffie—were kind enough to inform me that the festival would suffice as a prime setting for a date—”

“Date? This was a date?” Cloud says slowly, running the events of the day through his mind—the constant hand-holding, the doll that was ‘supposed to be for him’, the booth owner’s knowing looks, the ice cream, the way Sephiroth had been uncharacteristically nice and polite, _ ‘I wanted to go with you’— _ and suddenly he feels very, very stupid.  _ “Oh gods this was a date.” _

“ … Yes,” Sephiroth says, and suddenly the frown on his face looks more like trepidation rather than confusion. “People said—people kept saying that we made a good couple. And the… you—the way you always… I thought—I thought…” He studies Cloud’s stunned face carefully, then almost seems to wilt. “I thought wrong. Of course. It was presumptuous of me to assume… I stepped too far out of place. Someone like me—”

“Hey. Sephiroth, no,” Cloud says, grasping the same hand that holds the plush. “I’m… This is a surprise, I’ll admit, and this misunderstanding kind of sucks, but is it weird to say I’m glad that you were able to feel comfortable enough to assume that? I don’t know, I’ve never been in this sort of situation before…”

“None of your many admirers were ever audacious enough to assume they were in a relationship with you, I presume,” Sephiroth says dryly.

“No, I—I’ve never—” Cloud shakes his head, unsure of how to word it properly, so he presses a quick kiss to the corner of Sephiroth’s mouth instead, backing away quickly in case it’s unwelcome with these new revelations. When Sephiroth just stares, Cloud mumbles, cheeks burning, “I’ve never been… lucky enough to have my feelings returned before, I guess. I didn’t think you would ever… that you…”

He trails off, shifting nervously, but Sephiroth keeps staring. Finally, he says, “You have ice cream on your face. Right here.” He taps the corner of his mouth, and Cloud blinks, confused.

“What?”

“Why don’t I help you get it off?” Sephiroth murmurs, and suddenly he’s leaning in much closer, breath warm against Cloud’s lips, and Cloud—

Pushes him back. “We are  _ not _ having our first kiss be another dumbass cliché that you looked up,” he says firmly.

Sephiroth smirks. “No?”

“No!” Cloud stands and brushes the crumbs off his hands. “I don’t even have ice cream on my face.”

“A pity,” Sephiroth says under his breath.

“I can hear you.”

“I know.”

Cloud scoffs, then offers Sephiroth his hand again. “You were right about one thing, though, I guess.”

“Oh?” Sephiroth raises a brow, taking Cloud’s hand easily.

“Today’s going to be our anniversary, now, isn’t it? In more ways than one.”

“It is,” Sephiroth says, a tad wonderingly. He wraps his arm around Cloud’s waist. “Happy anniversary, Cloud.”

Cloud shoves at Sephiroth’s chest again. “You have to wait a year, dumbass!”

Sephiroth wiggles plush Cloud in front of real Cloud’s face. “Happy anniversary, Cloud. Now say it with me.” He affects a high-pitched tone.  _ “‘Happy anniversary, Sephi—’” _

Cloud rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, but he can't help but smile. “Happy anniversary, Sephiroth.”


End file.
